A Good Wife

by Betty Neels

  But she saw at once when she went down to breakfast that it was out of the question. Ivo was as immaculate as always, but there were tired lines in his face.

  ‘Did you get any sleep?’ she asked him, after wishing him a good morning.

  ‘A couple of hours. I didn’t disturb you when I came in?’

  He was his usual friendly self, passing her the toast, commenting on the weather.

  ‘No. Have you a busy day? You couldn’t take a few hours off?’

  ‘I’m afraid not. I’ve a clinic this morning, and I’m operating at Leiden this afternoon.’

  He gathered up his post and got up from the table. ‘I should be home around teatime.’

  He laid a hand on her shoulder as he passed by her chair. ‘Enjoy your day.’

  Which of course she didn’t; she worried until she had a headache.

  A few hours in the garden with Domus made her feel better. They still didn’t understand what the other was saying, but somehow they managed to work together, she undertaking the humbler tasks of weeding and thinning seedlings while he did complicated jobs such as grafting and pruning. She felt so much better that she went indoors and spent a long time learning her next lesson for her visit to her teacher on the following day. And when Christina phoned to ask her if she and Ivo were going to the burgermeester’s dinner party she was so bright and chatty that Christina put down the phone wondering why Serena sounded so unlike herself.

  Ivo thought the same thing when he got home. Serena, usually so quiet and restful, talked non-stop, barely giving him time to answer or make any comment, and although she asked him about his day, she gave him no chance to answer. Any ideas he had had about a serious talk he rejected, for Serena was clearly not in the mood.

  And so it was for the next few days; Serena was hiding behind a barrier of small talk. She was friendly, made sure that his house was run exactly as he wished, was a charming hostess when he brought colleagues back with him one afternoon but the barrier was there, as intractable as barbed wire.

  They just couldn’t go on like it, of course; he would be free on the following weekend and he would tell her that it was impossible to go on as they were. His hope that she might learn to love him was fading fast, but he would tell her that he loved her, even if it meant that she would want to end their marriage. That she was unhappy about it seemed evident to him. It was such a pity that each time they had been on the point of talking about it they had been interrupted.

  But nothing of their disquiet showed when they reached the burgermeester’s house; they appeared to be exactly what they were: a newly married couple and very happy. Only Christina saw the dark circles under Serena’s eyes and Ivo’s bland expression which concealed his true feelings.

  ‘There’s something wrong,’ she told Duert as they were getting ready to go to bed. ‘I have a feeling in my bones…’

  ‘Well, don’t try and find out, my darling, it might make matters worse. Allow Fate to settle the matter in her own way; she always does.’

  And he was right.

  Several days passed, and Serena wondered uneasily if she would get a chance to talk to Ivo. He was busier than ever, it seemed, sometimes away overnight, often late home in the evening. He was invariably pleasant, enquiring after her days, her Dutch lessons, whether she had heard from Nanny…but there was never time to do more than give him a quick answer.

  He was going to Luxembourg in the morning, he told her one evening. To operate on one of its leading citizens. ‘Nothing too serious. If all goes well I should be home late in the evening, or at least the following morning. I’ll phone you as soon as I know.’

  He had gone with a quick peck on her cheek and a wish that she would have a pleasant day.

  He phoned in the early evening. He would have to stay longer than he had expected. He would be home some time during the following evening.

  Serena went to bed early, which was silly because she didn’t sleep until early morning, and woke wondering how to fill the empty day stretching endlessly until Ivo should be home again. She would go to the sea, she decided, and got up to an early breakfast, took the dogs for their walk and went home to find a message from Christina. Would she go to the new day centre that had been opened in Den Haag? A project to keep young people with nothing to do off the streets. There was to be a free meal at midday, and they were short of helpers.

  Serena agreed at once, and went in search of Wim. She explained that she would be out for most of the day and asked him to drive her to the centre.

  Wim didn’t approve. The centre was in a poor quarter of the city; he wasn’t sure if the master would approve either.

  ‘There will be several ladies there, Wim,’ Serena assured him, ‘and I’ll be back around teatime.’

  She had to agree with him about the shabbiness of the centre’s surroundings: mean streets with small houses, many of them with their windows boarded up.

  Wim tut-tutted with disapproval. ‘There are illegal immigrants here from all over Europe. They bring many children with them and there is not always any work.’

  He was reassured to see several ladies going to and fro inside the centre, and Serena said briskly, ‘You see, Wim, there are any number of us here. And I’ll get a lift back.’

  She was given an apron the moment she put her face round the door, and the burgermeester’s wife—in charge, of course—directed her to one of the long counters set up in the main room. And no sooner was Serena behind it when the doors were opened and people poured in. A medley of humanity, not just the young people she had expected, but the old, and mothers with young children. She poured soup and handed bread and mugs of coffee, hoping she was doing the right thing, for there was no chance of talking to any of the other helpers.

  It was a seemingly unending stream, and she was quite sure that several of the younger ones came back for second helpings. And while the food held out, why not? she asked herself. When the burgermeester’s wife came round to make sure that everyone was doing things the right way, and told her that on no account must she allow anyone to have more than one helping, Serena replied with suitable meekness and doled out more soup to a very large and hungry-looking man who undoubtedly needed it.

  The lady helpers were supposed to leave their positions in turn, in order to refresh themselves with coffee in a back room, but somehow Serena didn’t manage to get there. The food and soup were beginning to run out and the afternoon was well advanced. The crowd was thinning, although there were still a great many young mothers with babies and toddlers.

  After this, the opening day, marked by the free lunch, the centre would cater only for schoolchildren and teenagers, and the old people and small children would stand no chance. Serena scraped out the soup to the last drop and handed out the last of the bread. The coffee had long since gone.

  The ladies began to collect up their things, ready to go home, telling each other that their efforts had been very successful while they ushered the last of the lingerers out of the door. Volunteers would come in the morning and clear up and prepare the centre for the evening. Now everything could be safely left.

  Serena, offered a lift by one of the helpers who lived outside the city, looked around her. It worried her house-proud notions to leave the place scattered with used mugs and crumbs and spilled soup, but since there were people coming to clear up…she started for the door with the last few ladies. They had almost reached it when Serena stopped.

  Up against a wall in the shadows there was a bundle, but somehow it didn’t look like an ordinary bundle. She went nearer to have a look and saw a child, little more than a toddler, dark-skinned, with black curly hair and very dirty. He was sound asleep.

  All but one of the ladies had gone through the door; the one who had offered her a lift came to join her.

  ‘We can’t leave him here,’ said Serena urgently. ‘Surely his mother will miss him and come back? He’s not Dutch, is he?’

  ‘No, Bosnian, I should think; there were a lot o
f Bosnian women here, most of them with babies or toddlers. Shall I phone the police? I’ll call in at Christina’s and phone from there.’

  She eyed Serena uncertainly. ‘You wouldn’t mind waiting here with him? I can’t stop—the children…’

  ‘Of course. As long as Christina knows where I am and will come pick me up later. I’m sure the mother will return soon.’

  ‘Then I’ll go. Will you lock the door?’

  ‘No, otherwise if she comes she may think there is no one here.’

  It was quiet once her companion had gone. Serena went and looked at the child, still sleeping. She looked round for a chair and found a wooden one in the room at the back of the building. She took it back and set it up against a wall facing the door, picked up the sleeping child and sat down. The chair was hard and the child was surprisingly heavy, but she told herself it wouldn’t be for long.

  The minutes ticked away half an hour, an hour, and there was no sign of the mother, and presently the little boy woke up. He began to cry at once, bellowing his fright in a language Serena couldn’t understand. Certainly not Dutch; if he was Bosnian then this wasn’t her lucky day. For want of a better idea she spoke to him in English, which didn’t help matters, although he stopped crying for a time while she sang all the nursery rhymes she could remember. And there was not a crumb to eat or a drop of drink, other than the water which dripped from the solitary tap in the bare little kitchen. And when she tried to put him down so that she could fetch some he roared and screamed so much that she gave up the idea.

  ‘The police will be here soon,’ she assured him, and hoped that they wouldn’t be long.

  But the lady who had promised to go to Christina’s and phone from there had found her away from home and, rather than explain to Corvinus, had driven on home. In the small flurry of finding one of her children had cut her knee, she had forgotten all about the matter, a fact of which Serena was unaware—and a good thing too!

  Another hour passed. The child slept again and she turned over in her mind what was best to be done. There was little noise from the street outside; she had tried calling but no one had answered, and she hesitated to roam the streets, knocking on doors to be confronted by people who would probably not understand a word she said. They might even think that she had kidnapped the boy. It was a silly situation, she reflected, but surely the police would come, and if Christina had been told she would come too. She decided that she would wait for another hour and then try to find someone to help her. It would be difficult, for she would have the boy with her and he wasn’t a passive child.

  He awoke then, and burst into tears once again, wetted himself, and then was sick all over her skirt…

  Mr van Doelen, home from Luxembourg, wandered into his drawing room and found it empty. He turned to look enquiringly at Wim, who had hurried after him.

  ‘Mevrouw went this morning to help at that new centre for young people. I drove her there, and it’s not in a decent part of the city either. I didn’t like leaving her, but she said she’d get one of her friends there to drive her back. Teatime she said. But she ought to be home by now.’

  ‘Probably having tea with someone, Wim.’

  ‘Oh, no, mijnheer, she would never be away from home if she knew you were coming.’

  ‘I’ll phone around and see where she is.’

  It wasn’t until he had rung several of Serena’s friends and been told that she had certainly been at the centre and as far as they knew had left when they did that he began to worry. And Christina wasn’t home. She had been the first person that he had phoned; now he phoned again. She had just returned. ‘Wait while I ask if anyone has left a message,’ she told him.

  She was back very quickly. ‘Anna opened the door to Mevrouw Slotte—she was helping at the centre—she said she had a message for me but couldn’t stop to tell Corvinus. I’m going to ring her now. I’ll phone you back…’

  Ivo curbed his fierce impatience. It was several minutes before Christina rang. ‘The silly woman—says she forgot. Serena found a small child just as they were leaving—the others had gone on ahead. It was asleep and Serena said she would stop until the mother came for him. Mevrouw Slotte said she would call here and let me know, and also tell the police. She forgot all about it when she got home—some small domestic crisis, she said.’

  ‘Thanks, Christina. I’ll phone the police and go there immediately.’

  ‘I’ll phone the police; you go and fetch her. There are too many undesirables living around there…’

  Ivo was out of his house, shouting to Wim as he went, and driving to Den Haag as though the devil were at his heels. But as he went through the door at the centre to all appearances he was his usual, calm, unhurried self.

  He saw Serena at once, of course, sitting with the child, sleeping again, on her lap, and saw her face light up with joy and heard her voice, a bit squeaky with emotion. He crossed the floor, lifted her and the boy out of the chair and sat down, holding them both close.

  For a moment he didn’t say anything, but he kissed her instead.

  ‘Oh, Ivo,’ said Serena, and kissed him back. Then added, ‘He’s been sick all over my dress and he’s…’

  ‘Trifling matters, my darling. You’re all right? You weren’t afraid?’

  ‘Not at first. I was just beginning to get scared, only you came. You called me darling; did you mean to?’

  ‘Of course I meant to. I’ve been wanting to call you darling since the moment I set eyes on you—’ He broke off as two police officers came in.

  Ivo put Serena carefully back on the chair and picked up the boy, and she sat there, strangely content, smelling dreadful, listening to him explaining to the men. Presently he handed over the child to one of the officers and came with the other to where she was sitting. The officer understood English, and Ivo filled in gaps when Serena got stuck, and presently the police left.

  ‘We are going home,’ said Ivo. ‘I’ll lock the door and let Christian have the key.’ He held out a hand. ‘Come, my love.’

  She looked down at her ruined dress. ‘The car—I’m filthy…’

  ‘Take it off.’

  No sooner said than done. He cast the garment into a corner and took her hand without appearing to look at her, and he had her into his coat, out of the place and into the car before she could utter. Somehow it seemed quite a normal thing to be sitting there in a flimsy slip under his coat while he drove first to Christina, with the key, and then home.

  Wim, opening the door, took one look and retired discreetly to the kitchen. ‘They won’t be wanting their dinner just yet,’ he told Elly.

  Serena made for the staircase, but Mr van Doelen was too quick for her. She was held tight in his arms, her face grubby, her hair a disaster, in a slip that would never be the same again.

  ‘Did I ever tell you that you are beautiful?’ asked Ivo, ‘And that I love you to distraction?’

  ‘No,’ said Serena, ‘you didn’t, but you can tell me now. No, wait until I’ve had a bath and got into clean clothes.’

  He sighed. ‘I’ve waited so long I suppose that I can wait a few minutes longer.’

  She leaned up to kiss him. ‘I love you too, you know.’ She studied his face. ‘Shall we be happy ever after now?’

  His kiss gave her the answer she wanted.

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  IMPRINT: Mills & Boon

  ISBN: 9781460892510

  TITLE: A GOOD WIFE

  First Australian Publication 2013

  Copyright © 2013 Betty Neels

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilisation of this work in whole or in part
in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the permission of the publisher, Harlequin Mills & Boon®, Locked Bag 7002, Chatswood D.C. N.S.W., Australia 2067.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

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